


A Raven Christmas

by SemiramisAudron



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Poems, Rhyming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 02:26:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9269558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SemiramisAudron/pseuds/SemiramisAudron
Summary: Poetic idea of how the Ghostwriter might have become a ghost.Written around 2006, pulled over from dA





	

_Christmas tales are merry and full of jolly and joys,  
but today I’ll tell you a story without candy, nor toys!  
One that has no happy end in this realm of existence,  
But if you don’t mind that, read on ‘til it ends.  
  
Somewhere in Ireland the day before Christmas  
1836… the century of nineteen,  
There was a young man, no more a boy, but keen  
To write what his heart sent to his mind’s address.  
Unfortunately the people didn’t seem to like his art.  
And critique had always been hard  
To digest for an artist’s frail soul  
Especially if it was his goal  
To gain money with it for his life…  
And our poor writer did not sell a verse  
He bought his last food (three days ago) by selling his purse  
And he needed a wonder (from ol' Ho Ho Ho) this merciless winter  
If he wanted to survive  
This terrific coldness, that cut like a splinter  
Into his skin under his worn-out, jaded coat  
With the pockets full of the poems he wrote.  
  
He wandered through the streets  
Snowflakes dancing around him  
But he only freezing and tired of treats  
He got from the people, they sent him away  
Leaving him hungry ant the rim  
Of starving on this cold pre-Christmas day.  
His feet felt unfeeling  
From his heart hope was peeling  
Like from a gravestone gold paint  
With people’s pity so faint  
At his pitiful look.  
The fingers frozen, numb, barely able  
To hold his scrapbook  
His writing unstable  
From his aching head  
And his burning throat…  
°If this misery’s living  
I’d rather be dead!°  
He thought as he went through unforgiving  
Snow to his rundown abode…  
  
But humans are evil, humans aren’t nice!  
They tear down your shed  
If you can’t pay the price  
Of the lawn where the box once stood  
Where you had your home, your memories, your bed  
And all your worldly good….  
And as I said; our guy was a poor one  
He was starving, freezing and ill  
And when he came home, his home was gone!  
It gave him a thrill  
When he realized  
That on Christmas night  
He would sleep on the streets, which all where iced!  
And overcoming did fright  
Our penniless writer  
He’d probably die  
If his fate didn’t get brighter!  
  
So he tried to sell poems the rest of the day  
Sold nothing but begged all to please let him stay  
In their houses, their cellars, anywhere  
Just not in the ice cold winter out there!  
But no one showed mercy, they all just ignored  
The man holding his chest, for his lungs were sore-d  
By the illness he caught  
Just the scarf he once bought  
Relieved slightly the pain  
But all his trials and hopes were in vain…  
  
When night finally came over town  
Our penniless writer, powerless fell down  
On his knees, close to crying:  
“Oh God I beg thee!”  
He pleaded to heaven  
“I ain’t afraid of to leave here  
But afraid of the ache  
When my body doth brake  
So show mercy, don’t let me,  
Oh Grateful, be dying!”  
And thus went his first tear  
As mourning wept Devan  
Over his fate…  
While the evening got night  
And the night got late  
He heard some footsteps by his side  
Small footsteps from children  
Alone, lost, freezing, forlorn...  
  
And like little pilgrim  
They sat next to him  
“Dear Sir, mayest thou help us?”  
they asked like God’s scorn  
of his pleas in vain  
“We freeze, can’t find home ‘cos  
we lost our parents in the crowd.”  
“For Goldsmith’ sake!” He cried out loud  
“Can’t you see I have problems of my own?  
I’m dieing here to put it plain!  
So just leave me alone!”  
The children they shivered from cold and from fright  
And our fate stricken writer sighed  
In defeat and tried to speak calmer  
“Oh Christ, so then come under my coat  
and you’ll get warmer  
I can’t let you be freezing with streets over snowed.”  
He said that so softly with a smile on his lips  
The children felt safe now with him  
And flung their arms ‘round his hips...  
  
He smiled and read to them a sweat poem  
Though his heart and hope was dim  
“Your parents will soon come, take you home  
Have no fear, don’t let your hearts be clouded  
They lost you when the streets were crowded  
I’m sure they’re searching yet for you.”  
He whispered ensuring while a chill ran through  
His body again. The children were warm  
But not enough to ease the harm  
Cold had caused to the trembling man  
But it was not before then  
That he had felt the spirit of Christmas.  
  
He read them stories and poems so jolly  
“And thus” he said, “spoke the shepherds; Lord bless  
this child in the manger  
let it not suffer under men’s folly  
and not experience harm under Herod’s anger.”  
Yes the oldest Christmas story he told  
To the children who warmed and grabbed a hold  
On him, so they wouldn’t sink to sleep  
Because he feared their slumber’d be deep  
And forever, not like, but BE Morpheus’ brother  
Cold unfeeling death himself, no other!  
And even though our writer’s powers faded  
And the children grew tired  
He read on and warmed and aided  
To keep their little soul flames well fired  
Through the whole Christmas night  
When all was clam, all expectations bright  
And watched over them.  
  
He felt almost warm, when the sun’s first ray  
Shone on rosy aurora on Christmas day  
His body felt like burning and yet so weak  
On this Christmas morning and in his arms  
The children were save, like protected by charms  
But still in his chest, this feeling so bleak…  
Worried he thought °I can’t warm them much longer…  
They are frail and much younger  
Then I, and I can’t take any more  
Of this terrible cold. I said it before  
And I’ll say it once more…°  
“Oh Lord, hallowed be thy name!  
I beg you please, if only their parents came  
To take them home into the warm chamber  
Because the sun with her rays like ember  
Can’t warm them and neither can I so Lord please hear---“  
But he was interrupted by a blissful cheer  
It was a young woman with husband,  
He looked quite relieved, she cried and  
They ran over to the three...  
  
The children so happy struggled free  
From under the coat of the writer  
And ran to their parents whose hearts got lighter.  
“Mummy, Daddy we missed you so badly  
‘tis was cold and we frightened so madly.”  
Mother, father and children they were reunited  
And our freezing poet who had recited  
His stories and poems and rhymes through the hours of dark  
He smiled at this family, his coughing a soft bark.  
He felt warm now, much warmer than ever before  
When they came over to invite him to spent  
Christmas with them, he smiling closed his eyes  
And opened them… **nevermore** …  
  
The parent’s quickly took their children, telling them lies  
“He was an angel, from heaven sent  
now he’s just sleeping before going home  
Don’t worry he doth be alright, now come!”  
The little family went away from the cold man  
Having a cheerful holiday then.  
You may think now, that’s unfair  
That’s not how the story should be ending?  
Well it’s all depending  
On what you imagine, a complete end is rare…  
Likewise for our dead artist…  
  
From out of the snow and the Irish morning mist  
Hobbled a raven, garb, beak and talons night black  
No other human saw the strange bird  
He picked softly against the dead’s temple  
And suddenly the air around him was stirred  
By a soft breeze and a glow, green and gentle.  
“Ah there he is, little soul I waited for you.”  
Spoke said raven to the aura. “You’re long overdue!”  
  
“Overdue?” Asked a voice, deep, rich and mellow.  
“Ay!” replied the raven. His eyes smiling not yellow  
but ghostly emerald green  
just like deceased writer’s had been…  
A vivid shining green orb now emerged  
From the dead man’s chest where the heart used to be perched  
Small like a marble, but glowing so bright  
Like the Morningstar in the deepest of night.  
“Yes overdue!” spoke the raven anew  
while life rose and people and children pressed through  
the streets, no one noticing the raven.  
  
“Thou arest to go to thy new home, thy haven.”  
And thus he lifted his talon to pick  
Up the little soul, holding it tight.  
“Fear not for I am thy guide from eternal night.”  
“Odin’s servant?! What happened? Why don’t I feel sick?  
I just felt like dying, now I feel nothing at all.”  
The bird cawed as it flew off. “Oh poet thy understanding is small  
Of what thou arest now, thy mortality hath gone!  
But be still now for we are entering the Ghost Zone!”  
  
Through a whirl of purple and green they did soar  
A flashing, a rumble, pandemonium the writer had not heard of before  
And underneath them no ground could be seen…  
“What’s this place? This ghastly purgatory?”  
The soul was in awe, the raven in rage.  
“How dare you! It’s the Ghost Zone in all it’s glory  
So leave the Catholics out of this you miscarriage!  
Poor imitation of a writer! You insolent twit  
Can’t grasp the beauty and fait that awaits in it!”  
  
“Forgive me dearest Nightbird! I am but a scared human”  
Our little poet scorned regaining his pride.  
“Thou shallst be a God then  
For thou hast passed to the other side!  
Ghost thou art for now, later we’ll see  
Until then thou arrest allowed  
To wander now where thy heart leads thee.”  
With this the raven released the little sphere  
Which grew to a new shape, humanoid and proud  
Emerald green eyes, a violet coat, grey scarf and raven hair,  
Elliptic glasses, pointy ears, sharp teeth and a goatee to complete the look.  
A ghostly version of himself, as new shape, the writer’s soul took.  
  
“I am quite impressed….” Said the new born ghost,  
regarding his fingerless gloves with almost  
amazement at his perfect new habitus.  
“So this means we are to part thus?”  
He asked to the raven who lifted a wing  
And pointed  into a direction. “No, to thy home I shall bring  
Thee, then I shall leave, hoping wisdom will be earned.”  
He started whispering as off he flew.  
“And return I will, once thy lesson is learned…”  
The poet did not hear the raven’s word as they passed through  
The Ghost Zone until they arrived  
At a ghostly mansion,  
though old, yet revived  
With the initials G and W at the gable I should mention.  
  
And as they hovered on the steps our poet gulped in awe  
In his head, this was the home he always saw  
When he had imagined being but poor  
“Yes this is the **Ghostwriter** ’s home, this is YOUR  
new home, I should say. Fill it with pride!”  
Spoke the raven at the new baptized’s side.  
“My WHAT!? Are you joking? This cannot be!  
I’m poor, have always been, will always be the poorest guy you’ll ever see!”  
He sighed at this memory… his life in one word:  
Poor… that is it… “Have you ever heard  
Of something called ‘karma’ the bird said annoyed  
By the self-pitying specter who stared into the void.  
“karma?... Uhm no… or yes, I think I did…  
But as bad as mine is, how many crimes did I commit?”  
  
Now it was enough for the raven, the ghost had a point there  
But he didn’t fully understand the range of this thought…  
“Oh poet what do you think were  
those children to do,  
had it not been for you?  
Why do you think I brought  
You here to this mansion which is yours?  
Your Karma is splendid, that is the cause!”  
The poet stared at him in disbelief,  
He was too used to wallow in grief.  
“You saved those two children, they would have died!”  
Now the overworked and annoyed raven sighed.  
“All this is yours, the house, library , stuff and each book!”  
The writer still had a pretty dumbfounded look.  
“Oh COME ON, mortal! Be happy! You just got  
A chance many other mortals get not!”  
  
Glowing emerald eyes under ebony brows  
Shone happy and thankful and in curiosity aroused.  
“If this word is true, dear raven my friend,  
You are soooo invited to spend  
This holiday with me in this marvelous place…”  
And suddenly poorness and grief was replaced by grace.  
“As nice as this would be, I have to say no,  
Shall return one day, but for now I have to go  
So farewell for now, may thy writing be of success”  
Spoke the soul guard to the poet  
Who replied with best demeanor:  
“So be it farewell, may Hermes bless  
you, graceful raven, to visit me soon in my new manor.”  
  
How the story continues you know pretty well  
… Now a rhyme on ‘poet’ I forgot to tell  
you, so… AW CRUD!... nothing rhymes with poet!_

**Author's Note:**

> Ah well... my version of how the Ghostwriter might have died...  
> Gah... I know there are some mistakes in it... and some flaws... like sore-d --- yes it means... they were made sore... or something... It's called artistic freedom... *huffs*
> 
> Devan O'Byrne... name completely made up by me
> 
> You wont get some things that are mentioned in it... like the God thing... because well... the rpg I'm playing is somewhat flowing into it too... anyway... gah...  
> Hope it's still okay ^^
> 
> And I hope I put it right... I have no idea... does a ballad have a certain rhyme scheme?... *sweatdrops*
> 
> Ah and sorry... I know Christmas is over but I didn't manage to finish it earlier ^^ (maybe better that way... so Danny can't blast it... though unlike some other writer... I DID make a copy of it XD )


End file.
